Unexpected Diversions
by schnook
Summary: In between the whirring computers, the snide remarks, the scratchy wigs and the Lego blocks, he's really not asking for much. Just her heart. Near/OC. Post series.
1. Chapter 1

**(Near/OC)**

**Hey all, well here we are: my very first Death Note fic**

**In which, I'm happy to say, I've pre-written the first four chapters; an incredible feat for me**

**let's get on with it, shall we?**

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**Unexpected Diversions**

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**Chapter 1/Introduction**

**The Reign of L Commences**

With a final comforting whiz, a sleepy beep, and a series of flickering lights before the final extinguishing, the central computer system shut down. He watched as statistics and profiles and theories and evidence terminated before him on the silver boxes, fading to a non-descriptive gray and faint buzzing before turning black. Five years of hard work, perseverance, late nights, early mornings and twenty-three Lego sets later, the screen's constant flicker ceased, and black took over.

Because it was over.

Because it was finished.

And just like that, after five long, hard years, Nate River left the empty headquarters, a stray sheet of blank paper crumpled on the floor, last week's cardboard coffee cup still hiding dejectedly in the trash. Eerie quiet enveloped the once electrified room, the ghosts of the dead and living haunting the empty chairs and dark corners.

The last ghost to leave, clad from head-to-toe in blinding white, exited the hollow room without a glance over his limp shoulder.

The last of the temperamental lights switch off, and the building was locked securely by security until who-knows-when.

Because finally, Kira had been caught and restrained, and Light Yagami is dead.

The sleek, black car that constantly smelt of peppermints and scotch was waiting two blocks away, at the assigned time, in the assigned position, with the assigned driver, waiting for the infamous, assigned passenger to hurry in.

Needless to say, though, said passenger _never, ever_ hurried.

Three minutes and twenty-four seconds later, Nate River slid into the backseat of the long, black box, in his opinion, just in time. Like he always was. He managed a smirk.

The car's engine roared to life and the headlights illuminated the narrow street in front of them. With a tap to the accelerator, the car was off, traveling toward nowhere but the future.

----------x----------x----------x----------

Crime is a tiring thing, though it itself never tires out.

No matter how acutely the world walked in fear of the unidentifiable Kira - well, unidentifiable to anyone but _him_ – it didn't take them long to soon realize that the higher power has mysteriously vaporized, and faster than you can say _I am Justice_, the old ways returned; stealing and hurting and killing and lying, because no amount of intimidation, no matter how ominous, can outweigh the effects of human nature for long.

He doubted Kira was even cold in his grave before the wave of crime started up again, and the world remembered it enjoyed the decaying mass it claimed to call the human race.

So, just like that, Nate River; Near; N, found himself swamped with job propositions to fight justice for good. To take the place of L; to be the clouded figure walking the earth with the sword of justice in one hand, the latest child's puzzle in the other. Even the FBI somehow managed to forget their own volunteered disassociation with the successors of L, and had been sending through faxes every day, on the hour, of invitations for him to join them in their fight.

Naturally, he hid.

He is no _coward_, though, thank you very much. Merely cautious. Light Yagami may be buried ten foot under, yet how many of his blind followers are seeking their revenge?

So, as he sat in the back of the well-polished, old-fashioned, black car, that smelt like peppermints (no doubt contributed by the former L), and scotch (most likely from the L before L) he could only sit idly and wonder what his _own_ successor would smell, sitting in this very same spot, wondering about the boy who called himself N, then L, then dead, and if the curious smell of scotch, peppermints, and plastic belonged to him.

His fingers itched to build something, construct something, play with something, but as it had been advised, his personal items would be traveling separately. Thus, he resorted like he often did to twirling a white lock of hair around his finger, the digit pulling at the strands almost painfully. He didn't wince, though – that would only be highly illogical.

Where was he going? Only the driver knew, and it would stay that way, Near was sure of it. He would continue to work on cases he was personally interested in for the time being, but nothing further. And he would work on them alone, just as L had previously done, unless assistance was absolutely required, of course.

Which he very much doubted.

----------x----------x----------x----------

Arriving at the warehouse, Near inspected it from the comfort of the backseat, with all the necessities of level heating and leather seats, and felt a rush of deja vu. The warehouse itself seemed to be an enlarged version of the small, red houses in his Monopoly set, only far more run-down and imposing, although, he had to admit to himself, it may have only seemed that way through the rain-streaked glass of his window.

A single entrance paved the way inside, the paint flaking off it's metallic glory, an entrance into what Near was certain hell itself looked like. But it did not matter either way – only he was going to be residing in it, and only he would feel the distinct similarities between this warehouse and the one he brought Kira down in every time he walked through it; not necessarily a bad thing, if he felt like gloating over his triumphant victory, yet it would be no pleasant experience, either. As far as he was concerned, N; Near; Nate River died in that warehouse alongside Mikami; his identity lost with Kira's.

Now, here next to this shell of a warehouse, in this shell of a town, was the shell of Near.

And only L lived in that shell now. Near was gone. L's reign had officially commenced.

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**first chapter.**

**Warning: by rule, I don't like to rush things, especially relationships. Patience is a virtue, my dear friends. Our OC may be appearing about chapter 3, though there'll be plenty of mystery to entertain you till then (I hope)**

**A/N: (love that acronym, by the way) More chapters will be up very soon, so keep checking back!**

**Traditional bribery: your thoughts, friends? Press the button. It's begging to be pushed.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ten minutes later – I give you chapter two!**

**Told you I was quick, didn't I?**

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**Unexpected Diversions**

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**Chapter 2**

**Someone**

Near was on the cold floor of his warehouse, sprawled out like an octopus missing four of it's arms, dissatisfied and moody with the investigation, or more precisely, the _lack_ of investigation.

Nothing surrounded him, save for three computers and accompanying equipment, a thoroughly deflated mattress and a stack of cards, which had arranged themselves into a haphazard mess to the left of his sock-clad foot.

At present, he had no desire to sort them, let alone construct an eighteen-story-high Taj Mahal with them, like he might have done on any other occasion. This state of gloom could vanish in mere minutes, of course. Nonetheless, this fact did nothing to the apparent truth that at present, Near; eighteen-year-old genius extraordinaire, was too listless to attempt a game of cards. It is this sad truth that is the result of lack of progress in any investigation.

However, _he_ was not the reason this investigation had taken such a horrible turn.

_He_ was the reason it was still being investigated.

_He_ was the one who had come only seconds away from cracking it.

_He_ was the one who had to pick up the pieces of an officer's foolish move; an officer who had been under _his_ control, yet had gone completely against his assigned orders.

And now, their cover had been blown. It would be foolish to resume investigations so soon – such a move would only land them in deeper suspicion. So now, all he could do was wait for time to cover his – no, not _his_ – his pawn's brutal mis-footing.

And all this waiting, this _lack_ of investigation, was driving Near to absolute boredom.

What he needed was an insider.

Someone not under any suspicion – who had no recorded affiliation with the line of Wammy's House, or any other private investigation organization.

Someone who could sneak around without actually calling attention to themselves, or more importantly, Near himself.

The question was, who was going to be that someone?

It was true, he had many people working under him, all of whom would raise their hand at such an opportunity, all of whom would willingly put their life on the line to complete such a vital task. All of whom, unfortunately, were under suspicion by the very people they themselves were investigating.

_No_, Near thought idly as he went in search of his finger puppets, s_omeone from the outside_.

He found them, to his delight, discreetly hiding under the corner of his mattress, which groaned in protest as he reached under it and carefully saved them from their solitude. Sitting himself on the cold, concrete floor, cross-legged and hunched over, he slowly, precisely, began to stand them upright in front of him, all an equal amount of space apart, otherwise it wouldn't count, of course.

A tiny Near stood to the left, his carefully drawn face obscured after many years of repetitive use. Next to him stood a puppet clad in black – formerly Mello, but adjusted to be a representation of the body of men and women working under him – the expression on the face a little confused, which suited the character perfectly, Near thought tiredly.

Opposite Near and his force stood another two puppets, facing each other as if ready for combat. One of the puppets Near had victimized to a series of fatal deaths; be it long falls from dangerous Lego towers to being run over by an unsuspecting fire-engine. This was the enemy. His black business suit shone and his smile remained unfazed, despite his numerous deaths.

Facing him was an unmarked puppet, blank – ready to be assigned. This was Someone. Someone would be their secret weapon; the ace up their sleeve, figuratively in the police force's case, literally in Near's.

Now he was no longer bored. Now he could get somewhere with this investigation again.

And he knew what the first thing he was going to do was.

He was going to find Someone.

----------x----------x----------x----------

The stack of files were huge.

No, they were _gigantic_.

Near wondered if he could ever build a tower that high. With Lego? Not likely; the pieces were too small, and it was hard to achieve equal weight-distribution due to their rectangular shape, meaning he could only build a tower up to half the size of the papers before it crumbled. With building blocks it was far more likely; though they lacked the direct locking mechanisms Lego had when you connected each piece, if it was well-built, he could build a tower as high as he wanted to, as long as he had control over the surrounding variables.

But that was beside the point.

The main concern here was that he was 3% sure he had twenty-eight hours to sort through the myriads of files to select one person with adequate – no, not adequate - with _exceptional_ intelligence, skill, experience, talent, resourcefulness, and who was utterly trust-worthy to perform this role. This, he deduced masterfully, did not give him that much time, as he made a point to go through each and every file on his own. Because this needed to be _his_ selection – he could not afford any more mistakes from their part.

Besides, if you want something done well, you must do it yourself.

Sighing only slightly, Near began at the best place to begin – the start. He scooped up the file on top and opened it with a quick flick. He scanned it quickly, picking and pulling at the essential information.

_Newly recruited officer?_ He read.

_No._

And he was one to the next file, only bothering to read through thoroughly if all major essentials were fulfilled.

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_Mother of six?_ There was no way he could afford such potential distractions.

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

_Eight years experience, recommended by all his former employers,_ Near read.

_Possible._

He threw this file to his right, starting a new pile he hoped would grow.

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

And so Near continued unblinking.

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"I have narrowed down our options to four," Near spoke into the speaker connected to his buzzing computer, his voice twisted and manipulated as it was fed through the wires. "I thought it would only be fair to show you the options we have before us, even if you yourselves have no authority in the final decision. Your opinions are, of course, welcomed and encouraged, though."

The five men and one woman on the other end of the line shared uneasy glances amongst themselves. When it came to L, they were never 100% sure of his sincerity - at the best of times they felt he was only incorporating them in his schemes out of pure formality.

"Thank you, L," the Chief of the elite group spoke in return into the microphone, his voice undisguised and rough through many years of use, "please send through the files."

"I already have, you'll find them arriving shortly, I imagine," Near told them, the slightest smile in his voice.

And they did arrive. Four documents opened up and enlarged themselves on the wide screens simultaneously; two male and two female. The notes typed about each individual were extensive, far longer than the versions that had been sent out, which the Chief presumed could have only meant L had added some of his own thoughts to the files.

"Allow me to introduce Connor Yip, Kevin Hashram, Lorna Sentill and Kathy Ha. These are the four men and women I have found most suitable for the job," L's voice echoed through the small, private room, "please; your thoughts, if you will."

Silence was what greeted him at first, until the lone woman, Detective Sherry Stevenson, aged fifty-three, spoke up boldly.

"Not Connor Yip or Kevin Hashram," she spoke loud enough for the microphone to catch her low voice.

The was a brief pause. "I agree," L announced calmly, just as the group had began to suspect Sherry had contradicted his opinion. "But tell me, why did _you_ come to this conclusion?"

Sherry glanced at the detailed profiles of the two men blaring on the screen before answering.

"I believe from what we've learned about the...nature of the suspected, these two men will not be suitable."

Another pause. "Why, Detective?"

"He's a rapist," she blurted.

A fellow worker gaper at her in horror, his chin threatening a dual with the floor. "So you think we should send a woman straight into his clutches? Just because he'll be able to think of an alternate agenda? Are you serious?"

"We should go with either of the men," the Chief protested, "it might take longer for them to gain his trust, but at least no one will be in danger."

"Chief," L interrupted before he could go any further, "I believe whoever we choose will be in danger, no matter what gender they may be."

He paused before continuing. "As I stated earlier, I agree with Detective Sherry. Though I wouldn't have exactly expressed it in such terms, I do believe that due to our suspect's history, he will not feel as threatened by a woman. We know him to think them inferior – he will be less likely to bother acting, even if he does suspect she is working undercover."

A furious nod met this statement from Sherry, whose face had been scrunching up tighter and tighter as he continued.

"That scum!" She spat. "We'll show him."

The Chief sighed in defeat, carefully avoiding Sherry's line of anger. "I guess then it's either Lorna Sentill or Kathy Ha."

"Lorna Sentill, aged forty-three, working undercover for twenty years. Kathy Ha, aged thirty-seven, recommendations and colorful awards for her abilities and ..." here Matsuda trailed off, realizing the exact same information could be seen from the screen. He tried to cover his error with a series of sharp coughs.

"Hard to say," the Chief admitted, chewing a toothpick between his teeth that he had found on the bench. "Experience or flair?"

"Experience," Sherry decided forcefully.

"Flair," Matsuda suggested at the exact same time. He earned a harsh glare from his opposer.

"Experience is required in an assignment as delicate as this," Sherry explained, using her hands to prove just how essential is was.

"No," a high-ranking police officer contradicted from a corner, where he had been watching the debate with an amused smile on his face. "Flair; we need someone who'll simply get the job done – in and out. Then it'll be over. Nice and quick."

"_Experience_," Sherry unenunciated each syllable between gritted teeth, her fists curled at her sides.

"_Flair_," The officer mimicked in turn, the amused smile plastered to his face.

"May I remind you," Near cut in, "that it is I who will make the final decision. Thank you _all_ for your thoughts. They will all be considered as I make this decision. We'll make contact again soon."

And with a _click_, he was gone.

"_Flair,_" the officer snickered under his breath, being rewarded with a smack on the head from the dominating Detective Sherry.

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**HaHa! You guys thought SHE was going to be in one of those files didn't you? Didn't you?**

***evil laughter***

**eh, sorry about that**

**fact of the day: writing a character created from thin air is one of the hardest things you can do in fanfiction; I hope you guys will like her, or at the very least, tolerate her. **

**I happen to like her. *hint hint***

**Traditional bribery: I am sure no one has reviewed so far...yet it _would_ be a pleasant surprise, don't you think? (suggestive winking)**


	3. Chapter 3

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**Unexpected Diversions**

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**Chapter 3**

**Who the Hell Are You?**

Kathy Ha sat at her kitchen table, a newspaper at her elbow and her lover beside her. She reached over every now and again to said lover and took an appreciative sip.

Damn, she loved coffee.

Without it, she wasn't sure how she would survive. The aroma, the texture, the temperature – it had been _made_ for her.

The local newspaper was filled with the usual petty crimes and lost pets; after a while, these trivialities became morbidly predictable. A robbery; a high school drop-out forcing his way into the corner store, the old spinster's cat missing – _again_, and the lottery results, in which she never participated, but liked to check anyway to see if her name was printed by some fantastic twist of fate.

This was her morning ritual – save for the odd doctor's appointment or some such thing that would alter her seamless schedule. It was the anchor that stabilized her day before it had even begun.

On this particular morning, as the digital clock's red numbers assaulted her line of sight with the digits 6:37, she was feeling particularly optimistic. Perhaps it was the new brand of coffee she was currently sampling. It _did_ have calming chamomile, after all, as the label so proudly declared.

Picking at the label with her two forefingers, chapped and battered due to her line of work and poorly constructed diet, she sat alone at the bench in the same stool in a quiet, empty house. Divorce had left her rather lonely, and without ever having kids – good gracious, she was _never_ having kids – she missed the company, and even if it was arguing, it was stimulation.

Then there was, as most horror films traditionally open with, an ominous knock at the door.

Sighing heavily, hauling herself off the unusually high stool (was she getting shorter?), she made her way slowly to the front door and peeked out. Seeing no one, she opened it a little wider.

No one.

Strange, but in this neighborhood, hardly worthy of a midday drama.

Or early morning drama, for that matter.

Grumbling slightly, she shut the door and locked it, promising revenge on the children whose parents let them loose in the once quiet, respectable neighborhood. Once, before her generation decided it was time to populate the world, she lived in peace. She was _never_ having kids.

Upon walking back into her barely-lit kitchen, it was then she saw him.

She didn't panic; no, this was what she was trained to do.

"Who are you?" Kathy kept her voice level and calm, carefully not betraying any hint of the anxiety and fear that was pulsing rapidly through her veins. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears; it made her toes curl into themselves.

"An enemy," the man spoke, his voice low and disguised through many layers of fabric.

Well, she couldn't have expected much worse. Drawing in a shaky breath, struggling to maintain her composure, she tucked her hands in her pockets, trying to appear nonchalant about it. She asked: "Are you here to kill me?"

The man said nothing at first; he only studied her. Then, quite suddenly, he dived across the kitchen bench in one swift move, knocking her to the floor with his legs.

She thought she couldn't have been more surprised, but apparently, she could. At that moment, lying in a daze on the floor, she could hear the screeching of tyres outside her small house, a commotion bubbling from outside her door. Were there more? Had they come to raid her house; to steal her new television? There was thumping against the solid wood door, urging her to open it.

Her intruder swore under his breath, and looked down at her.

"Invited friends?" He sneered. Apparently she was not the only one mildly surprised.

"They're more like gate-crashers," she managed, her head spinning. It felt like she was trying to find her way through a dense fog, with no direction or insight.

The door was struck down after much heavy thumping and pounding, and the early morning light streamed in through the opening, shedding light on her intruder.

"You!" She snarled. A thief? No, he was no petty criminal – she had seen this face before. It's seemed he had seen hers as well, which was disconcerting, as she had always prided on keeping her identity hidden. She a fierce grunt she tried to knock him down with her legs.

Her attempts made no difference, he was no longer paying attention to her. Only when the voices outside came closer did he glance down at her and her pathetic attempts to take him down.

"Goodnight, Kathy," he smiled pleasantly, before knocking her out with one powerful elbow.

He straightened up and contemplated his chances.

"You there!" Matsuda cried, his silhouette shady against the streaming light in the doorway. "Stay where you are!"

The intruder swore again, but otherwise paid the officer little attention.

"I said freeze!" Matsuda cried again, motioning with his hands wrapped around a gun for backup.

"Another time," the intruder muttered, and headed back hastily into the kitchen.

"He's heading for the window," Matsuda yelled at his co-workers, gun still raised and pointing to where the criminal should have been.

Sherry and the Chief dived around to the side of the house, crouching down low as they circled to the appropriate outlet. They waited for him to fly through the window, imagining his own hasty escape. But they would catch him, revive Kathy, and all would be well.

They waited.

And waited.

"He's not coming," Sherry whispered furiously to the Chief. Then she had an idea.

"I'm going to circle the outside of this place on my own - you wait here."

"No," the Chief told her, irritated for being ordered around, "_you_ stay here and _I'll_ go around."

Sherry just shrugged, submissive only to that familiar tone in the Chief's voice.

Crouching, he turned his back to her and awkwardly continued the trek. Turning the corner, he disappeared from her sight, though his haphazard steps were still heard, destroying any sad plants – or more likely, weeds – that happened to be in his path.

A long moment later, he was behind her again, having completed the route.

"No one," he whispered, his breathing a little harder than usual. Crouching while walking while searching was tough work, apparently.

"Me neither," she confirmed in return.

"Alright then," the Chief sighed as he rummaged through his numerous pockets to find his communicator. "Matsuda?" He spoke into it.

The voice on the other end was fuzzy, but without a doubt the fumbling officer he had addressed.

"Yes?"

"You still at the door? Good. We're coming. It's time to move in, I think," the Chief ordered swiftly.

"Sure, but sir-"

But the Chief had already pocketed the device and turned to Sherry. The two of them hurried to the entrance, no longer bothering to try and conceal their presence.

Matsuda was still standing as he was, gun raised; aimed toward nothing, while an unconscious Kathy Ha lay further down the hall.

"Matsuda!" The Chief cried. "What the hell are you doing?"

Matsuda merely shook his head and gulped, gun still in the air, as if someone had forgot to remove it from it's lofty place.

"There's-there's someone else in there," he finally managed.

"Yes," Sherry assured him, or at least attempted to – she did not possess the knack of comforting when necessary; her words often came out as a bark, intentionally or not. "We know that – he didn't come out like we expected. He's still in here."

But Matsuda was still shaking his head, so fast now his head might have spun off.

"No, no. Someone else – there was a tackle and a scream, then a crash. But no one's come out yet. In the kitchen."

The Chief's bushy brows furrowed deeply, decreasing the size of his head by about 4.7% and his general attractiveness rating dropped from a five to a four. With a movement that sung of stealth, he crept past Matsuda and into the threshold, his index finger bending to signal them to follow.

Together they crept down the hall, careful as mice on a mission, till they had reached the open doorway that lead to what they presumed was the kitchen. With his back pressed against the wall, the Chief took a fleeting glance past the corner and into the small, poky, yet generally clean kitchen with strange foreign tiles.

He reprimanded himself. He wasn't here to assess Kathy Ha's decorating ability, for heaven's sake.

With a second longer look he established what was in there. Or more precisely, _who_ was in there.

"Step away from the body," he ordered firmly, revealing himself in the low archway and pointing his small revolver at the person.

Sherry and Matsuda followed suit, only to gape at what they saw.

The intruder they had seen not ten minutes before was knocked down to the ground, a small trickle of blood escaping his nose, flowing down his neck and onto the tiled floor, no doubt in search of some better body to hide in. His body was twisted in an odd way; it was obvious he hadn't simply surrendered to whatever force had attacked him.

The force itself, however, was the main cause for concern for the small group watching the unexpected scene.

She was crouched over his body, two fingers on the pulse in his neck, acting as if none of them were there, as if the Chief had never spoken to her. She was just a dark shadow, but her voice rang out clearly enough.

"He's alive – that's good. He should be alive for the time being at least," she decided after a moment of shocked silence on the investigation teams part; contemplating silence on hers.

"For the time being?" Sherry asked, finding no reason to draw her gun as the Chief had done. After all her years of experience, she had learned that at times it was simply best to play along.

"Well, yes," the figure responded automatically, as if the fact was blatantly obvious – which perhaps it was - until confusion took over her voice. "Unless you want me to do away with him right here, right now?"

She may as well have offered to make them all some tea in the strangely tiled kitchen, with the overwhelming calmness her voice held as she offered to kill a man for them.

"L," Sherry spoke quietly into the mouthpiece connected to her uniform, careful not to draw attention to herself, "there's been a complication."

"No, that's quite alright," the Chief responded to the figure, not quite sure whether to hand-cuff her or thank her. He was still debating his options when he decided that it really only depended on one thing. So in reality, he could only ask the million-dollar question:

"Who the hell are you, anyway?"

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**lol; main character *pops* out of nowhere. Classy, real classy. Feel free to hit me over the head with a baseball bat right about now.**

**And thank you so much to those who reviewed – your encouragement......well, encourages me, I guess! :)**

**A/N: get ready for some Near/OC next chapter! Weeee – I'm so excited!**

**Traditional bribery/review prostitution: if you press that button, Near will lend you some of his hair dye.... :P **


	4. Chapter 4

**The fourth installment – enjoy!**

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**Unexpected Diversions**

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**Chapter 4**

**Interrogations**

Near surveyed the girl from the cameras hidden in the interrogation room.

She was sitting slumped in her chair behind the table; waiting, he guessed. Or maybe she just had bad posture.

She was alone in the room, waiting for the mysterious fellow to interrogate her from the speakers attached to all four corners of the shabby room.

Interrogation did not necessarily involve words, though; not at first, at least. It was customary for him to survey all his suspects before attempting any form of verbal combat. Appearances can provide ample amounts of information about a person; from their body language to the way they dress; to the amount of effort they put into their physical appearance to their individual posture. Sometimes he released suspects without saying a word to them. He didn't need to at such times.

But for now, he was only studying her.

It was hard to see _properly_ from the small cameras, of course, but that was no excuse for not being able to read a person. She's slumped – which could either mean she's tired or even bored. It could also mean defensive, and is a classic appearance adopted by those who want to appear nonchalant.

Her dark hair covered her face, and even in the way it does so, reminds him of her. She looks like her; a younger version, though. A prettier version, perhaps? No, not really. The resemblance is there, though, and it's prevalent.

It seems the one missing detail Kathy Ha forgot to mention on her extensive resume was that the reason she never wanted to have kids was this:

It had been hell enough raising her kid sister.

----------x----------x----------x----------

"Mem Ha?"

The voice trickled through the speakers above the girl's head, enveloping her.

So; they knew her name. It wasn't that much of a surprise; it would have only been a matter of time, really. By now they should have her medical history, bank account details, schooling reports...

"Yes?" Mem answered vaguely, mentally listing off the things they knew about her that she herself probably had no idea of.

"You are the sister of Kathy Ha, correct?" The low baritone questioned. It was a mechanical voice, though this didn't really surprise her, either. By the looks of things, they ran a tight ship around here. Or rather, _he_ ran a tight ship around here.

"That is correct," she confirmed. Four syllables; what could they get out of four syllables? She set herself a maximum of five.

"Do you live with Kathy?" The voice asked. She could hear the slight undertones of boredom there, or maybe she was just imagining things. She resorted to picking at the cuticles of her nails, as all other forms of entertainment had been cruelly removed from her midst – she couldn't even give the interrogator a hard time by staring at him, or some such horribly melodramatic thing. Before, it had been amusing to watch them _squirm_.

"No." One syllable. Nice.

"What were you doing in her house at such an early hour, then?" He sounded as if he were asking questions off a list already prepared, which she considered as a serious possibility. Would he be the hand-written or computer keyboard type? She couldn't decide; perhaps he liked a bit of both – just to mix things up a bit.

What had he asked? Ah, yes – she remebered. But an answer in five syllables? Well, she could try.

"She'd called for my help," Mem stated.

There was a slight pause – a moment of hesitation so brief Mem almost missed it; but she heard it – it was there. They were slightly thrown off guard. _He_ was slightly thrown off guard. She attacked her cuticles with a new vigor, internally pleased.

"When?" The carefully selected word floated above the roots of her hair.

"I assume just as she realized there was an intruder in her home," the five-syllable rule had been thrown out the window, apparently. She was sure her patience was soon to follow; for how much longer would this interview be one-sided – hadn't they realized she was just as confused as they were?

"What business did you have with my sister?" Mem asked, willing for there to be an _exchange_ of information.

"That's private business, I'm afraid," came the prompt reply.

_Of course_, Mem thought. Despite this, she was careful not to let her annoyance show. Cooperation is a two-way street, after all. This just meant a little more shielding on her part.

"How did your sister contact you?" The voice sounded again.

He was being careful. She could hear it. What worried her was how this person knew he had struck a cord. Had her carefully composed mask failed for a moment? She decided she would be cordial with answering – for now at least, to make up for whatever face she lost.

"We established an exclusive signaling system for each other. She gave it to me some years ago with the instructions to keep it on me at all times, and to only use it in emergencies. This would work both ways, of course," she answered truthfully.

"So she must have had it on her when her intruder arrived?"

_What was he getting at?_ Ah, she saw now; he may be theorizing that someone else; possibly the intruder himself, had used the device to lure her to the scene of the crime instead of Kathy.

"It's unlikely anyone but my sister could have used that device; It's been designed in a way in which only we know how to work it, and she keeps it in her pockets at all times," Mem paused briefly before continuing, throwing a bit of theory in there, just for good measure.

"If he was a simple thief – which I highly doubt – he would not have taken the risk to use the devise; he would have had no idea as to who it would signal to. If he had deeper connections to my sister, though, he may have known about the signaling system. I doubt he used it though, considering the reasons I mentioned earlier."

The speakers overhead were silent for another small moment. Steady, rhythmic breaths were heard passing in and out.

"I see I did not need to explain myself, then," the voice spoke slowly, contemplatively, each word holding a heavier meaning. She wondered if the words themselves had not physically crashed on the top of her head.

Another pause followed, though it was an obvious one. It was a needed one.

"Mem?" The voice asked, the big, fat question mark terrorizing the simple name.

"Hm?" Mem didn't bother to make eye contact with the camera overhead; they would be seeing each other face-to-face soon enough. She could feel it.

"I think it's time you and I met, don't you?" He tacked the question on the end, suddenly feeling as though firm orders would take him nowhere good from this point onward.

"Yes, I do."

----------x----------x----------x----------

Near sat in the uncomfortable chair facing the girl, surveying her silently as he was sure she did the same.

_She's a strange looking person_, he decided. Whatever role she played in this mess, it was clear to him now why she had been chosen for the part.

She was a faceless person; features so average she might have blended into the wall behind her. If it wasn't for the piercing stare she was surveying him with, he might have overlooked her altogether when he walked into the room. She looked neither old nor young, fat nor skinny, beautiful nor ugly – it was like he had to squint to see her right. She was a chameleon – blending into her environment wherever she went. It was her clever defense mechanism. It was her costume to hide in, it was apparent to him now.

_But she can't hide from me_, Near thought bitterly.

Her attire was much like her face – nondescript. Then again, he wasn't sure. He had a feeling she could walk into a room with all the colors of the rainbow splashed on her and a fish bowl on her head, and still, no one would see her. Perhaps what he was seeing now was her double; a washed-out version of the real thing. Perhaps he was sitting across the girl known as Mem Ha's shadow, talking to it like it was a living thing.

It made him feel a little foolish, to his utter dismay.

"Why did you knock the suspect out?" Near asked, physically restraining himself from reaching his hand into his hair – that would only give her something to latch onto, something to identify him with. For now, all he wanted to be was the white ghost. Perhaps together they would make a whole person; the ghost and the shadow.

The girl didn't even have the decency to looked shocked, or even embarrassed. She just stared straight back at him, in that unnerving way that she had (not that he was _unnerved_, mind you, merely _put out_).

"He was going to escape," she deadpanned, unabashed.

"So you knocked him unconscious? How were you able to do that?"

Truthfully, Mem was a little disappointed. She had envisioned an older, wiser man to enter the room – a worthy opponent who she could test, who she could pull and push at, seeing how far she could get away with it. Instead, in walked a boy, a year or perhaps even less older than herself. He was clad in white; from his hair to his skin to his clothing. It was either a bizarre joke fate had played on him, or he had had a terrible accident with the flour bag in the kitchen. Surely he wasn't the one who had been interrogating her earlier? Perhaps this young man was a decoy – a stunt to throw her off somehow.

Well, she would have none of it.

"I had a few lessons when I was younger," she answered vaguely, one hand swaying in the air dismissively.

"And these lessons stopped when?"

"About a year ago, I'm a little rusty."

She thought she saw him repress an amused smile.

"And these lessons enabled you to knock out a grown man over half your body weight?" Near asked, leaning back in his chair; the picture of ease. If she didn't know better she would assume this was all a joke for him; a game.

"I'm skilled?" She offered with a rare smile. It was small, and a little half-hearted, but when resources are slim you need to dig deep.

"I hardly think that would suffice. So please," he none-too-subtly ordered her, "_enlighten_ me."

"My sister _did_ give me extra," she paused, choosing her next word carefully, "lessons."

"And I assume these _lessons_ consisted more than just martial arts?" Near summarized easily, face almost blank, as if she were giving him an outrageously descriptive account of paint drying.

Mem shrugged; there was no point denying it now. "I believe she viewed me as some kind of project. Anything and everything she learned in the Academy, in her line of work, in her experience, she would try to pass onto me."

"Do you know why?" Near asked, not appearing interested in the slightest, like he already knew the answer.

"No, I don't-" But she was cut off.

"I _do_ recall Kathy mentioning in her personal file that she had a _back-up plan_, should anything go wrong with her health or any other reason-"

_Any other reason_, they both understood clearly; death.

"-I had always assumed this plan was literal, now I wonder if she was referring to _you,_" Near told her, his internal struggle resolving itself as he unconsciously began to lose his finger in the white mass that was his hair.

"It's likely," Mem agreed. "I had always imagined something like that," she added.

"Yet you claimed to had no idea why she was giving you these lessons," Near pointed out in his usual monotone.

"I lied," she told him simply, "the truth is that I have no desire to be a part of this case, now that Kathy's in hospital."

"I never welcomed you," Near reminded her, a smirk on his face – the first expression he had shown so far.

Mem couldn't help but mimic his expression as she tilted her head to the side. "On the contrary; you invited me on this case the moment you brought me to this room."

And by the time she had said this, he was sure he could see her a little clearer than before.

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**Well, what do you think? Any suggestions/concerns/approval/theories?**

**Well, I'm off to write the next few chapters!**

**Traditional review bribery: Do you know in some foreign lands, where fanfiction is available, it is good luck to give a nice, long review on the fourth chapter, and you will in return live a long, fruitful life? True story. *extreme coughing fit***


	5. Chapter 5

**It is with great pleasure that I give you....**

**----------x----------x-----------x----------**

**Unexpected Diversions**

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**Chapter 5**

**Headquarters**

Well, it had seemed that the first step to initiating the recommencing of prior investigations had been successful, if not a little unforeseen. Someone had been found. Someone had been inducted. Someone had a lot to prove, with very little time.

Perhaps it had been wrong of Near to trust in Kathy Ha's judgment so explicitly. After all, Mem Ha was hardly qualified; to speak the truth, she had absolutely nothing on her back to recommend her but a set of mysterious instructions left by her sister.

Lorna Sentill was still an option.

But it was too late for that now.

Mem Ha had been right when she told him she knew she had already been picked, to his chagrin. Had it been a subconscious decision? Mello had always said that he had a tiny genius inside his head, controlling him while in reality he was nothing but the hands. Had such a tiny, finch-like genius awaken in his own mind and decide Mem Ha would be the one to follow through this investigation? It was highly improbable, yet the idea of tiny Nears working the levers of his brain was far easier to swallow than the prospect of himself, Nate River; acclaimed child-genius making a _hasty_, _ill-informed_ decision. _That_ was the substance that made fairy-tales – not tiny, flying beings.

Now he had no choice but to see how this would work out. If the plan did collapse, he comforted himself, he would have nothing to loose. It was Mem Ha who would be in danger should she commit – heaven forbid – any errors. If such a scenario would occur he would simply contact Lorna Sentill, and the process would start again.

Callous the reasoning may be, but for justice to be executed, it was necessary. And Nate River _always_ did what was necessary.

----------x----------x----------x----------

That night, for the few hours Near decided it was appropriate to sleep, he dreamed vividly.

Mello was standing over him, his appearance just as it had always been; the familiar blond bob surrounding his pinched face, his beads hanging around his neck like a clinging lover, ceremoniously like they always had.

"Near," the dream-Mello urged, his pinched face growing tighter as he tried to wake the boy. He grasped one of the sleeper's shoulders and shook it roughly. "Get up, you brat."

Groaning, Near stared at Mello, unperturbed at his presence. He said nothing, only watched the familiar features above him. He did not bother to take the opportunity to drink in the familiar face, or make a snark reply as he might have years before hand. After all, he didn't care. He couldn't.

"I hate you," Mello sneered, his grip on the boy's shoulder tightening.

Near couldn't help but smile sleepily in return.

"I know, Mello. I know."

----------x----------x----------x----------

"What is this place?"

Mem Ha was looking out the window of the car, her neck stretching out so ridiculously far Near suspected it may break with any further tension.

They had pulled up on a familiar stretch of gravel, in a shell of a town with nothing but seagulls to peck at the windows as she stared out at the foreboding warehouse. One particular seagull took an especial liking to the glassy number plate pinned to the front of the car. A constant _click click click_ vibrated the seats as the white bird pecked away happily.

"This isn't where-" Mem drifted off, certain that no further explanation was required.

"No," Near sat on the other side of the car, a little thrown off as they had switched sides upon entering the vehicle. _He_ always sat on the _left_. Yet now _she_ was sitting in _his _spot. Would the trivial catastrophes never end?

"No," he continued as he climbed out of the car, again a little off-balance from having the use the door on the_ right._ He waited for her to follow suit so he would be heard. "It's only similar," he directed his voice over the glassy black top of the car.

"Oh," was all she said, and Near tried to isolate the slight disappointment in her voice.

Together they walked in silence to the opening of the warehouse, the crunching of the gravel beneath their shoes magnified to sound like lightening crackling. Slightly unnerving, yet far easier than conversation.

It was early morning still, and the sun was still only yawning in the sky above them, a pale excuse for yellow stretching over.

"This is now the headquarters to hold our investigations. At this stage, I believe it necessary," Near offered unexpectedly, lifting his finger only marginally to indicate that he was referring to the warehouse.

Mem couldn't help but feel it was from their lack of faith in her abilities that they were moving to a more secure location. She couldn't really blame them, either – not even she wanted to go through with this business; whatever this _business_ was.

They reached the entrance, with the driver still in the car.

"He's not coming in?" Mem asked, meaning the driver.

"No," Near replied, then explained, "I have asked the rest of the team to arrive in twos, in fifteen minute intervals. All have assigned drivers who will immediately drive away once their passengers are inside the building; I have no desire to draw attention to ourselves by creating a car park out here." Opening the entrance, he gestured for her to enter.

"Waiting out in the open is not advisory," was all he said as he closed the door behind him.

Mem didn't respond, instead turned to face the low-ceilinged warehouse that smelt distinctly of rotting paint, rats, and – _plastic_? She then spied an extensive Lego set half-constructed into a birds-eye-view of New York City. _Ah_, she thought, fighting down an amused smirk, _plastic_.

It was a wide space, bare in all senses. A few narrow window circled the very top of the walls, letting in shafts of morning light only marginally. In the center of the room, laying unceremoniously on the floor were three computers, all facing each other. Already they were buzzing and humming, their screen casting a blue glow on the walls, flickering like the new-age candle.

Then there was a pitiful looking mattress, stripped bare of any sheets of pillows it may have adorned itself with, half deflated and positively dangerous. It was little wonder his posture was so atrocious.

Then again, she couldn't really talk.

It was then that Near slumped beside her, one hand lost in his ample sleeve, the other in the white mass on his head, surveying the place as if he were trying to imagine it through her eyes.

"It will do for now," he spoke quietly, imagining the sight before him added with the aisles of a toy store; train tracks, race tracks, car tracks, plane tracks, covered tracks...

"All we need is in here," Mem agreed, trying to imagine the old wreck of a site filled with judicial activity. The image she constructed in her head seemed too surreal.

"If you mean the mattress, forget it; he's not the type," Sherry spoke from the doorway, making Mem jump a little.

"Uh," was the eloquent response she provided. _Nice_, she reprimanded herself, but _she_ hadn't been the one to think of _that_.

"Detective," Near greeted the woman and the young man who stood beside her, his mouth agape as he stared at the two young people, side by side. "Matsuda," he greeted coolly.

Sherry advanced at lightening speed and snatched the white-haired boys hand, shaking it so enthusiastically it may have detached altogether.

"It's an _honor_ to meet you at last, sir," she told him fervently, still subjecting his hand to the unusual torture.

"Yes," was his only reply, tugging his hand from her deadly grip. He nodded slightly at Matsuda, who still hadn't moved from his initial spot. His feet seemed to have been rooted to the floor.

"Nice to see you again, Matsuda," Near said, his tone leaving much doubt to the authenticity of his statement.

"It-it is?" Matsuda hesitantly approached the other, his steps echoing through the floor.

"Of course," Near returned, his eyes focusing on a spot above Matsuda's head, burning a hole into it then destroying the ashes. "I'm glad you decided to stay on the task force, despite the ordeal the circumstances of our last meeting centered on."

"Thank you," Matsuda beamed, standing a little straighter. He lifted his hand to smooth his black hair, then decided against the action and let it fall by his side.

"Since your driver has not yet left us, Matsuda," Near took a step toward him, in which Matsuda only looked elated, "I was wondering if I could entrust you with an important task?"

Matsuda again raised his hand, this time in a military solute. "Anything, L," he accepted eagerly. His smile now seemed permanently plastered to his face.

"The Chief and the others will be here soon," Near instructed, "I think they would all appreciate some coffee, don't you?"

Matsuda was visibly crestfallen. He slumped as he trudged back to the car, his driver waiting patiently for him.

_Not again,_ he thought as he climbed into his seat.

----------x----------x----------x----------

"L?"

Near looked up grudgingly from within the towers of London, his hand suspended in mid-air as he reached out toward Big Ben.

"Yes?"

The Chief, Detective Sherry, Matsuda, the officer who preferred to remain unnamed, and Mem all looked down at him, expressions raging from impatience (in the Chief's case) to morbid fascination (Mem), and a variety of colors in between.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" The Chief asked gruffly, his heavy eyebrows arching as he chewed on his third toothpick.

Near ignored the patronizing undertones in his voice, and answered calmly, "No, thank you; I'm merely thinking. Let me assure you that what I am doing raises my deductive abilities by 38%"

So they waited as he continued to construct Big Ben, from the clock face to the pointed top. As he lay the last piece, he finally spoke.

"Chief, you were saying that the intruder Miss Ha so kindly restrained is affiliated with our suspect? In business terms, more specifically?"

The Chief nodded, his arms crossed as he fought down the urge to knock down the towers tickling the bottom of his nose.

The was a pause. "Interesting," Near decided. "Is he conscious yet?"

"No," Sherry spoke.

"Well then," he whispered as he inspected his handiwork, "there's not much we can do on that front till he wakes, is there?"

They all shook there heads in unison, all except one.

"Does this mean-" Mem hesitated, her head tilting to the side.

"Yes, your services _will_ be required, as soon as possible," Near looked at her directly through the towers, trying to patch the bits of face together to make _hers_.

"How will we use her?" The Chief asked, eyeing the girl skeptically.

But Sherry was shaking her head furiously, her short peppered hair slapping her face. "No, no, no – there is _no_ way we're letting Mem anywhere near that man. I absolutely refuse."

"Where is his file?" Mem asked Near.

Near debated whether sending someone else to go retrieve it for her, for the fear of leaving his towers unattended. He should have built a laser sensor around the site when he first started. Leaving such things to the last minute was far from practical.

"Here," he raised himself awkwardly, careful not to knock anything over. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I'll get it."

He found the file under his mattress, which was beginning to portray itself as a handy storage unit.

Slinking his way back, he read over Mem's shoulder as she fingered through the file.

It's interesting watching someone read from close proximity; to observe them dwell on certain section, and then skip others entirely. He could hear her sigh, think and reason. If it wasn't so uncomfortable, it would have been informative.

"What would you have cast me as?" Mem finally spoke, handing the file back to Near. There was no way she would be volunteering her thoughts first; she needed to _compare_.

Near shrugged, though his eyes held such a focus they counteracted the movement altogether. "A young employee, a surveyor; nothing that would get you too close."

Mem wondered if, again, this distance would be kept due to their doubt in her abilities. She was sure even Near saw the flaws in such a distance being created. If it was information they wanted, she had no choice but to wheedle her way in as effectively as possible.

"I disagree," she told him firmly.

Near's head snapped up.

"This man has no current children, true?" She prompted.

"Yes."

"Though he did have a wife once. She was pregnant when she left him?"

"Yes," Near dragged out the word slower this time.

"And he has never re-married?"

"Ah," Near nodded, seeing now, "no, he hasn't."

The others looked on in confusion at the quiet exchange.

"So you agree?" Mem asked him tentatively, for the first time, and what she internally promised herself would be the last. She knew well deep down inside of her some part despised working for this young man. She would have to be careful to not let it show, if she wanted this role.

Near remained silent for a long moment again, watching her intently as if to see her properly. It may have been exactly what he was doing, for all she knew. She tried not to feel uncomfortable. She failed.

"Yes," he responded finally, his finger pulling painfully in his hair, "I agree."

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**hope you all have a good weekend**

**and i'm glad to hear you guys are liking the story so far, your reviews are the free toy in my breakfast cereal**

**Traditional review bribery/prostitution: I have nothing against owning an obscene amount of free toys that come in cereal boxes.....**


	6. Chapter 6

**thank you to everyone who subscribed, favourited and reviewed this story****! **

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**Unexpected Diversions**

**----------x----------x----------x----------**

**Chapter Six**

**The Difference Between Cruise Ships and Boats**

Mem paused, feeling as though some devilish four-year-old had whisked away the floor from beneath her feet. It was maddening, and _darn it_, she _hated_ kids.

"You-you agree?" She hazarded, blinking headlights.

Near didn't bother to give her an affirmative, instead, he settled for twirling his hair idly around his forefinger, watching her all the while with his vacant stare. It was rather unsettling. (Not that she was _unsettled_, mind you, merely _put out_).

"You agree to _my_ idea," she tried again, feeling the need to stress the 'my.' To her, it felt entirely possible he was under the impression they were talking of _his_ genius, _his_ brilliance, _his_ plan. She wouldn't have put it past him to immediately assume these things when _anything_ remotely intelligent was brought up.

Apparently it was only now Near found an answer was required. "Yes, that is what I said." It was said in the same cool, detached manner he always had, only laced with hints of strained amusement.

"Good?" She asked, a question more than anything else. Her feet were still dangling in mid-air, and she _hated_ herself for it.

"Good," he echoed her, and Mem doubted even he knew why.

"Well then," she scrambled to make up for lost ground, straightening her back, hands linked precariously in front of her, "thank you."

He inclined his head only slightly toward her, the white mop assaulting his face, before he spoke again.

"Of course, there are several major flaws to your plan, all of which must be dealt with within the next few days," he sighed just a little, as though the world had crashed on his lungs at that moment, "I suppose _I'll_ be leading that, too."

Mem found the sudden desire to hit him a hard one to repress. She resorted to linking her hands together in a death hold, her fingers wrestling each other painfully.

"What should we do in the meantime?" Sherry asked.

"I'll find something, rest assured," Near turned his attention back to his Lego as he said this, pale fingers cradling his prize.

"Like what?" Barked the Chief, the words managing to escape clearly despite the toothpick rammed between his lips.

"Hm," he breathed, holding the miniature brick in front of one dark eye, examining it closely. He appeared only to be half-listening. "Something."

"Great," muttered the Chief, folding his bulky arms across his chest. "Just great. Can I remind you we don't even know what's going on here? I sure am sick of all this vagueness."

Seconds ticked by, while all glanced down nervously at Near, who was absorbed in his construction work; utterly content. Just as the Chief began to feel the need to repeat himself, Near's voice rang out.

"Mem?" He asked.

She glanced up from her staring contest with her hands, who untangled themselves merrily at the small victory. "Yes?"

"Good," he nodded, turning back to his task.

Mem stared down his half-turned back, willing by sheer force of her eyes he would turn around and say something at least mildly cohearent. She failed though, as it seemed the young man had some supernatural immunity toward death glares. He continued fiddling with the plastic idly.

She sighed, ultimately willing to humor him, if only this one time. "What?" She conceded, internally making a note to knock ten years off his mental age.

"Would be so kind to explain my decision, Mem?" He responded airily, his back still teasing her.

_His_ decision, was it now? Mem internally fumed, her hands seeking out violence on their own accord. The palms wrestled together with a vengeance.

"Of course," she spoke, the tension in her voice straining. "It's been decided that I will take up this position, after all-"

"_No_," Sherry spoke firmly, her face quite red, "send someone else to be the telemarketer or what have you – heck, send _me_. I will not have you sent off into some man's clutches-"

"The decision has been made, detective," Near interrupted, his monotone steady as always.

Mem couldn't help but feel a little compassion toward the woman who so earnestly wanted to protect her, so she let kindness color her words.

"Thank you, Sherry. But with the approach I've constructed, danger won't be such an issue, I believe. If there is any chance of that, like L said, he will be taking care of it shortly."

Then it came to business. She cleared her throat. "Our suspect's wife was pregnant roughly seventeen years ago. However, since they separated before the birth of the child, and the former wife would not allow contact of any kind, he is not aware that there was a miscarriage. As far as he knows, there is a seventeen-year-old child out there that is his own, whom he has never been able to meet."

"You," the Chief emphasized this by pointing one thick finger straight at Mem.

"Exactly," she agreed, then frowned slightly. "Though, as L has said, there are a few flaws to this plan that could be detrimental if not carefully avoided. For example, if our suspect should decide to contact his wife, he undoubtedly will learn that I am not his child, or if he shows no interest in having a child at all, and tells me to leave."

"So what – you plan to waltz up to him tomorrow morning with a 'hey dad,'" he paused at this point, one hand buried in his pocket, the other in mid-air for a short, awkward wave to prove his point, "and you'll win his trust? Will you stay with him? How can you even convince him you're the kid?" The officer questioned incredulously, his hand still hanging in mid-air.

"Of course not," Near spoke from behind the plastic towers, making his voice sound strangely synthetic, "we must perform this infiltration carefully. We need to watch him as closely as we can, so we may be able to predict his reaction to Mem. He may surprise us all with an affectionate, maternal side."

The Chief tried to disguise his disbelieving laughter as a coughing fit. His toothpick flew from his lips in the process to land by Sherry's shoe, who flinched in disgust.

"And how can we be sure he won't contact his ex-wife during all this? It seems like the first thing he'll do," the Chief recovered, smiling apologetically at Sherry, though it delivered itself something closer to a grimace.

"In the chance that he does try to contact her, regarding Mem or otherwise, we can be certain he will find nothing suspicious," Near told them idly.

"Why's that?" Sherry asked the inevitable question.

"Because," Near didn't so much as miss a beat, as if glad for the queue, "as we speak, the former Mrs. Haddaway is reading her mail, in which one of the letters informs her of her luck in winning a month-long cruise around the Islands of Hawaii."

"You bought a boat?" Mem cried in disbelief.

"Don't be absurd," he sniffed affectively, "I _hired_ a _cruise ship_. _Boats_ are the rounded wooden structures tribes often employ to catch fish. Quite the difference, you see."

"Well, a _cruise ship_ just makes it all the more better," she sighed.

"In any case, she'll be enjoying a little break where Mr. Haddaway cannot reach her."

"Won't it seem a little odd that Mem suddenly pops up into his life after seventeen years, and his wife is sent on a cruise to an undisclosed location – at least to him - at the same time?" Sherry asked, ticking off each detail on her fingers.

"Not at all, because this is where you come in, Sherry," Near eyed her.

"Me?" She asked, surprised.

"It's safe to say that even under every day circumstances, the former Mrs. Haddaway would have never agreed to see her husband again face-to-face."

Near halted here to inspect a singular white strand of hair he had accidentally pulled out with all his finger-twirling before continuing.

"With this in mind, we can safely use Sherry to be Mrs. Haddaway's "voice" over the phone without causing too much suspicion if she declines any offers to meet. That way he will have all the assurances he needs of Mem's authenticity – just not face-to-face."

The Chief, by some small miracle, had found another toothpick, which was immediately forced between his lips. "Does Sherry even sound like the woman?" He murmured around it.

Near bowed his head, his untidy hair shielding his face entirely as he responded quietly. "I can assure you, Chief, that after seventeen or so years, the easiest thing to do is forget the sound of someone's voice."

----------x----------x----------x----------

Mem was tired.

No, tired was the wrong word.

The state of being tired implied willingness to sleep. It implied a significant deficiency in brain activity and physical endurance. You were tired after you climbed Mount Everest, while learning Italian all the way up at the same time.

Mem wasn't sure she'd even seen photographs of Mount Everest, let alone step foot near it.

No, Mem was _exhausted_.

Exhaustion was what took over when you had spent an entire day in the company of Near and his small band of recruits. Exhaustion was what happened after hours of planning and debating and wondering and plotting. You could be exhausted, and still feel as though it would take a miracle to fall asleep.

She was _exhausted_.

They had been booked into a hotel, all of them but Near, who of course preferred the comfort of his mattress which no doubt somehow survived the age of dinosaurs.

On the way to her booked room she had seen no one, which made her wonder if he had _hired_ the place just as he had with his _boat_. It didn't look impossible, in fact, it seemed the most likely option now. From lying on the covers of her bed she huffed; _the convenience of money_.

She had never known wealth. She doubted she ever would, and this foresight never bothered her. Besides, wealth was only for those who wanted to hire cruise ships and book out entire hotels at a time.

Her parents had been liberal with their money. In fact, it wasn't until their deaths that she discovered _how_ liberal. It wasn't as if they had saved a small fortune, no – far from it. But it was enough. Enough to live; enough to eat, enough to pay board each week in the small house for Disadvantaged Teenagers.

'Disadvantaged.' of course, meaning orphaned.

_Orphaned_.

The thought brought her back to the original cause of her internal ranting; Near.

It was still a struggle to grasp the concept of the small, docile, ghost-like boy being the world-renowned L. Of course his intellect and genius recommended him, but when no words left his mouth, and he was doing nothing but admiring his servile robot, he looked like nothing but a crippled boy.

But what she hated most, was the pity she felt for him when she saw him like that.

----------x----------x----------x----------

"You're up early."

Mem had woken early the following morning, as she usually did. Her eyes opened to the surreal feel of a plump blanket beneath her and several soft pillows beneath her head. Slightly disconcerted by such comfort, she flung herself off the bed, as if it was a pile of hot coals rather than a billowing peak of duck feather.

From a fleeting glimpse out the window to the streets below, she had spied the same black, classy car waiting, parked on the curb, as if it had been waiting there all night. Without wasting time, she had got ready and flung herself in without much more than a "Morning" to the usual driver.

So here she was, waiting awkwardly at the entrance of the warehouse, the barely-risen sun peeking through the gaps by her elbows, as she was greeted with the somewhat obvious statement from Near. He himself looked as though his body had never touched the sorry excuse for a mattress, his own odd mix of alert and tranquil as always.

"Yes," she responded, peeking out at the pale gold sun as if for clarification, "I am."

"You sleep in rarely?" He asked boorishly, poking at his airplanes with his back to her, sitting cross-legged on the cold, concrete floor.

"Never," she confirmed, still eyeing off the early sun.

"Never? That's quite a hefty statement."

"Ever give up those planes?" She countered. She could almost hear his small, half-moon smile curl up lazily on his face.

"Never."

She tried to bate down the smile that threatened to take over her face. Even with his back turned to her, she was sure he wasn't fooled.

"I've been thinking," Near began, in which the irony of such a statement was not lost on Mem. Again, she managed to fight down an amused smile. "Of this man who managed to break into your sister's house."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he nodded vaguely, more to himself than anything, "I was considering the connections between him, our suspect; Mr. Haddaway, and your sister."

"Really?"

He nodded again, and sent a plane flying over his head, a small '_whoosh_' barely audible passing through his lips as he did so.

"And what have you found?" Mem prompted, recalling his need to be asked questions.

He shrugged, disrupting the plane's flight course detrimentally by doing so, his thin shoulders heaving at the effort.

"I never said I found anything. I merely said I was considering it."

Mem sighed heavily and glared at the offending back below her.

"You haven't faced me once this morning, you know," she told him, irritated.

"And? What is that meant to mean?" His voice was the same idle monotone, yet his plane had halted in mid-air.

Mem shrugged, not denying herself the small smile that was now finally allowed to break free. "I never said it meant anything. I was merely making an observation."

He twisted now to face her, perhaps from guilt, or perhaps just to spite her and prove her wrong. He had to tilt his face upwards to make eye contact with her from all the way down on the floor, and found the head movement bizarrely unnatural for his neck.

"Were quite the pair, wouldn't you say?" He informed her quietly.

Well if that wasn't cryptic, she didn't know what was. "Are we?" She asked, eyebrow raised, trying her utmost to appear off-hand.

"Mm," he confirmed vaguely, before twisting back to face his airport and relevant craft. His back to her once again, he spoke. "Of course, any brilliance that may arise from our working together in cooperation comes 84% from my end."

"Isn't it just _fascinating_ that whatever I do, I always manage to find myself in the lowest banks of inferiority?"

"Not fascinating, but true."

She smirked. "What's true is the fact you can only insult me when your back is turned toward me. A little cowardly, wouldn't you say?"

Near almost visibly sighed, though the gush of air was more than audible. "And for a small moment there I thought we were capable of carrying out a polite conversation."

"How utterly boring," Mem concluded.

He twisted to face her again to say something, but a loud bang stopped him short.

"Morning!" Sherry cried jovially from the doorway. "Really need to get that thing fixed; it makes one hell of a ruckus!"

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**Really glad Sherry came in then – even **_**I**_** didn't know what the hell I was going to make Near say :/**

**suggestions/critique****/flattery welcome**

**traditional review bribery/prostitution: I got nothing. **

**Wait! I know – I'd love to hear some reviewers sharing what they like to read most in a romance/ Near/OC/ death note fanfiction **

**tell me, my pretties, tell me**


	7. Chapter 7

**A big thankyou to ****NaiveLittleDreamer ****(whose support and encouragement for this story is unwavering and appreciated), ****Colwyn ****and ****xoBriBri3xo ****for reviewing!**

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**Unexpected Diversions**

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**Chapter Seven**

**Where Boys and Girls Are Damned**

The room, by some small miracle, had warmed.

Its bleak interior, housing barely anything, flanked with concrete floors was generally cold enough to pass as the average igloo. Even the white figure that was usually crouching in the centre of the building seemed to frost the place by taking off another good ten degrees.

Yet, strangely enough, the air surrounding Mem felt oddly comfortable, a miracle she attributed to the amount of activity Near's three computers were undergoing. They whizzed, beeped, groaned and lit up every few minutes. Foreign numbers and letters choreographed themselves into an exotic routine, rapidly dancing on the screen as they zoomed by. Then, after a particularly hard maneuver had been accomplished, the computer would sigh, and let out a gush of hot air out of its system.

The boy in question was paying less attention to the activity than anyone else. Only at odd intervals would he glance over his shoulder, his attention only momentarily diverted from his deck of cards, toward the electronics, as if to check that they had not run away. It was a wonder how the computers were accomplishing all that they were without Near's constant input, yet even after only two day's in the genius' company, Mem had learned to let the matter go. He wasn't named the world's current greatest detective for no reason, after all.

Only a few hours ago, the Chief and Matsuda had burst in only minutes after Sherry, ironically in the exact same fashion. It was made clear now that the door, indeed, needed to be fixed, in which the responsibility for the task had been set on Matsuda, who somewhat reluctantly agreed.

"What exactly do I need to fix about it?" Matsuda cried from behind the metal in question. He banged on it a couple of times, with what sounded suspiciously a lot like driftwood, to see if it would make a difference. He opened the door hopefully, only to have his irrational hopes crushed when it groaned in protest.

"Do you need oil?" Mem asked, trying to be helpful.

Matsuda raised his hand to his hair and patted it conspicuously as he gave her a quizzical look. "Oil?" Then he hand smacked his forehead. "Oh! You mean for the _door_!"

"Erm," was the best affirmative she could provide. Did he really oil his hair? The thought was a little alarming, and the mental pictures provided along with it were of no help, either; Matsuda wasn't known for his cleanliness, after all.

He hurried out of the building, pulling out his mobile to call who she assumed was a driver.

"I'll get Petey to drive me to town to buy some," he called from outside, his figure half cut off by the doorway. He turned his attention back to his call, and began to chat excitedly. Sherry managed to inconspicuously close the door on him, though his vivacious voice could still be heard, muffled by the walls.

"Petey?" Mem repeated, to no one in particular.

"I assume he means _Peter_, the chauffeur," Near responded glumly - perhaps imagining his automotive employee's reaction to his newly-appointed nickname – his hunched back toward her, of course.

"Ah," she glanced toward the computers again, and curiosity sparked her tone, "what are you doing?"

He glanced at her over his shoulder, befuddled. "Solitaire?"

"No, no," she sighed, though she couldn't help but wonder if it was the only kind of card game he knew; the one-player, singular kind, "on the computers?"

"Oh." It was the least articulate thing she had heard him say as yet. "Downloading."

"Downloading what, exactly?" She hazarded, after a moment of deliberation.

"Oh, the usual," he shrugged half-heartedly, his fingers immediately meeting his hair as he thought, "footage mostly from public security cameras, and the cameras we've already secretly installed. I want to observe Mr. Haddaway; his actions, or rather, what we deduce from them, will be of great help."

Mem couldn't help herself. "We?"

His back responded, which was of no great surprise. What was surprising to her was how maddening it was. "Well, certainly," his insouciance irked her. "From here on, this affair concerns you. Unless, of course, you're hinting to me that you want to reject the role?"

"What? No, of course not!" She seethed.

He smirked as he lay down a card in front of him. _Trumps_. He smirked to himself again; it always came back to that. "I thought you wouldn't. Good."

"Good?" She felt herself resemble a parrot more and more.

"I want to arrest this man. You're my aid. Your staying is thus a good thing," he told her clearly, as if she would easily miss any of it.

_Of course_, she felt like face-palming, but refrained from doing so out of fear of morphing into Matsuda. She had been foolish to expect any sort of praise or recognition of her abilities. In the end, as it was completely clear to her now, it was all about justice, no matter who was trod on to achieve it. It was only now she fully realized she would be used mercilessly to catch this criminal. Near may be willing to provide safety nets now, before the mission actually commenced, but if she should be in danger during the process, justice would take priority over her safety, even her life. Because that was how he worked. Because he was L.

The thought made her stomach plummet.

Despite this, she couldn't force herself to hate him. Instead, she hated herself for ignoring the inevitable and continuing with this plan.

Justice owed her. _Big_ time.

"Well then," she said, clipped, determined to do something; anything, "where do we start?"

Near pierced her with a calculating stare, his head only marginally inclined toward her. Then, bizarre beyond belief, he squinted at her, his eyes still calculating.

_Who squints?_ She found herself wondering in annoyance, shamelessly willing the archaic light that hung meters above his head the unhinge itself. Willing did not result in action, unfortunately, and he persisted to sit there, squinting.

"Well?" She demanded, albeit impatiently, suddenly finding his back a far more agreeable option. She folded her arms, hoping to appear at least slightly intimidating. Yet, he continued, never wavering his strange squint.

"_We_," he emphasized finally, seeming to enjoy the annoyance that flashed across her face as he said it, "hit 'play.'"

She didn't bother asking for clarification, instead, her attention was concentrated on keeping her temper, and by extension, any forms of violence, in check.

He shuffled idly toward the three computers, leaving his half-finished card game scattered in a lonely mess on the floor. Crouching down in front of the semi-circle of technology, he began typing furiously with a speed many had doubted him capable of. Barely bothering to raise his head, he made a quick gesture for her to join him.

When he was certain the shuffling to his left was Mem and not one of his numerous walking, talking toy robots, he – in exaggerated slow-motion – hit 'play' on all three screens.

"You watch that one," he indicated said screen to Mem with a pale, spidery finger, "and I'll watch these two. I'm sure you can figure out the rest."

As quickly as he had indicated the screen, footage began to play. After adjusting to the gray, fuzzy monochromes, Mem settled down with her knees drawn against her chest, and watched.

The scene that played before her was a fairly standard one; she found herself to be looking in from a camera hidden in a cornice of a high-ceilinged room of a small apartment. The room was rather dull; a potted plant which looked as though it had suffered much neglect sat dejectedly in the corner, an equally neglected plush armchair facing opposite. A small, wooden desk was wedged into the corner opposite her line of vision, adorned with what might have been color-coded files, had the camera shown any color. The desk chair seemed uncomfortable to the rump just looking at it, while the television that neighbored the unfortunately fated plant shone too garishly in the dimly-lit room. It was an unhappy, lonely sort of office, Mem thought privately.

After discovering that watching an empty room was indeed as dull as people advertised it to be, she fast-forwarded the footage about three hours, so the suspect was seen opening the slim door and slumping unceremoniously into his uncomfortable desk chair. She winced just at the thought of sitting on such a death trap.

He sat that way for some time; hunched over, a graying head buried deep in his hands as he spun slightly from foot to foot. After a long minute, he sat up slowly, stretching his back muscles before straightening fully, and with a flourish from another world, began to sort through his may-have-been color-coded files. Then came the staring out the window routine, which, after zooming through subsequent hours, developed into a routine.

Sighing, Mem took out a pen a pad of paper, and began taking notes.

----------x----------x----------x----------

Near had always been somewhat antisocial, which anyone with at least a tenth of his intelligence and a whisper of common sense could see. So, in a strictly non-criminally-associated sort of way, he could relate to his number one suspect, Mr. Haddaway, quite well.

Was this how L had felt when he had met Light Yagami for the first time?

Mr. Haddaway had few acquaintances, and even fewer friends. To his credit, though, he did own a cat. A rather feisty one, at that, which always pointed to some sort of intelligence regarding it's owner. _No fool owns a fierce cat_ – it was an unsaid philosophical truth that should be posted on billboards and the back of buses all over the world. Near made a mental note to create a catchy acronym for the wisdom later, to make the spreading of the life-saving fact far more economical and concise. He was a giving soul, after all.

It was safe to say then, if anyone could determine the sincerity of Mr. Haddaway's solitude, it was Near himself. He would be able to read of the man's isolation just by looking into his eyes; it would be like watching his own reflection in the mirror, after all. And for the record, Mr. Haddaway was lonely; as lonely as a fourteen-year-old girl's teddy bear, gathering dust in the broom cupboard.

Yet, this newly-found deduction was the best news he'd heard in _months_.

He glanced to his left, where Mem was crouching with a pen spinning chaotically in between the slim canals of her fingers. A notebook that looked as though it had emerged from the rubble of World War II was laying half-crumpled by the buds of her toes, a few scratchy sentences scrawled onto it in odd succession. She was staring at the screen with such absent-minded intensity he was surprised (not that he was _surprised_ by anything, mind you, merely _marginally taken-aback_) that the screen in question had not cowered in fear yet.

_Yet_, as it seemed, was the key word here.

What _marginally _surprised him the most, though, was the fact she was staring at footage of an empty room, her expression as vacant as ever.

"Miss Ha?"

Most likely finally realizing _Miss Ha _was _her_, Mem swung her attention to the boy next to her, startled out of her reverie. "Yes?"

"Your thoughts are not currently on the case," he informed her.

"Oh," her eyes widened momentarily at getting caught. She blushed madly and turned away, shielding one side of her face hastily, "sorry," she muttered and proceeded to glare at the screen in front of her within an inch of it's life.

Near blinked. Well, that certainly had been interesting.

"Your sister?" He prodded, hoping to find an explanation for that inexplicable, yet strangely welcome, blush.

"What?" She exclaimed, still refusing to turn her gaze away from the delicate task of setting a computer on fire simply by watching it. "Oh, no – no, I wasn't thinking about her."

His barely visible brows furrowed underneath the lively mop of white hair. The options were few, especially if they included the people he himself knew of. Unless, of course…

Realization dawned on him, and a short, awkward throat-clearing was followed by:

"Ah," he paused, "boyfriend?" It came out substantially less tactful than he had initially envisioned it.

Mem began to cough violently in response, apparently on nothing at all.

He waited patiently, calmly, for the splattering to end, which took a surprisingly longer period of time than he had anticipated. Just as he began to consider leaving the inarticulate girl by his side in favor of his cards, she spoke.

Well, sort of.

"What?" She choked out between coughs.

He shrugged. Did he really owe her an explanation? He thought not. So, instead, his finger wove into a lock of hair that lay unruly on the base of his neck and watched her.

"I mean no," she spoke, then added for emphasis; "no, no, no, _no_." After a small moment, with her trying pointlessly to beat down the blush on her cheeks that was the response to the foreign subject, and foreign partner in discussing the subject, she added, purely to finalize the point: "_No_."

"Yes," Near responded, still watching her, not sure whether to be amused or pleased or both. "I think you've made your point quite clear, Miss Ha."

Mem floundered to defend herself. Her hands literally wavered by her sides, as if to keep herself afloat. "I was surprised, that's all."

"Yes," he told her, wondering if the emotion of surprise was such a bad thing if she admitted openly to it, then decided it must be, because Light Yagami himself would have been able to tell the girl was simply _mad._ "You made that quite clear, too."

She was at a loss for words, still unbalanced after such an unlikely accusation, she found she could do nothing more than glare vehemently at him in response. At least when her mouth was closed, she didn't have the opportunities to compromise her dignity.

Well, not _usually_, anyway.

"So," Near began in such a manner that Mem was sure she would have to cut his tongue off by the end of the day: She braced herself. "If it's not your sister, or some rugged rebel from the outside plying after your heart, what could have had your thoughts so far from home? Or _who_, perhaps?"

Then, horror of horrors, he smirked at her, his fingers tugging gleefully away at his hair.

And at that same moment, Mem realized something far, far worse than any egotistical smile or unhealthy hair-harassing habit.

_He_ thought she had been caught thinking of _him_.

Her eyes narrowed. The _nerve_.

But the worst part of it was, the absolute terrifyingly, horrifyingly, shockingly, chillingly, cherry-on-top _worst part of it _was that he was right.

_Damn_ him.

But his correctness only ran 58% deep. Internally, she danced a jig at the idea: Ah, the joy of perceiving the certain _levels_ there was to truthfulness.

"I was thinking of you, actually," she told him, straight-faced, watching him keenly to gauge his reaction. It reminded her a little of waiting for an ill-tempered cat's reaction after you have pulled it's ear.

He blinked. Then he blinked again, a little too rapidly to be considered a reflex, or normal, for that matter.

"Oh?" Was his third verbal blink.

"Hum," she agreed casually, raising her hands as if to show just how much she agreed.

"What _about_ me, exactly?" He wanted to know.

"Oh," she shrugged, oblivious to his irritation toward her one-syllable half-words. "The usual."

The _usual_, she felt, was the most ominous thing to grace the face of the planet since television's midday drama soap operas.

"Oh?" He echoed, leaning in further, willing her to continue.

She leaned in closer in return, and allowed herself a small, insincere smile.

"You don't keep cricket bats here, do you?" She asked suddenly.

He frowned, but didn't pull away.

"No? Tennis racquets? A baseball bat or two?"

His frown deepened.

"No? Oh," she sighed, crestfallen, "so no heavy equipment of any kind?"

Here Near found it acceptable to answer, seeing that if his frown deepened any further, his face might pucker. "Unless you classify the _Robo-centric 3000_ heavy equipment, then no. I don't play sports, by rule."

What he hadn't intended was to tell her that small, seemingly inconsequential piece of personal information that concluded his remark. Risking a puckered face, he frowned deeper to himself.

"Consider yourself safe then," she assured him, leaving him no doubt to the nature of her once-private thoughts, "for the time being, at least."

She smiled briefly, then returned to her former position, leaving the small shell of body heat that was Near for the dull footage on her computer screen.

Near tried to smirk in return, but the facial expression in question decided to morph itself half-way through the creation process into a grimace.

_Damn_ her.

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**Writing this chapter was more fun than you can poke a stick at.**

**Of course, this could also be due to the idea of Near performing any act even close to flirting equals assured hilarity XD**

**Review bribery/prostitution: let me conjure up an appropriate metaphor to explain how much your reviews mean to me……hey, do you remember Ryuk and his apples?.... **


	8. Chapter 8

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**Unexpected Diversions**

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**Chapter 8**

**The Thing**

Watching Mr. Haddaway was as effortless as peering into your own reflection dancing across the shiny glass display window of the local tea shop, assuming you ever went by that part of town.

Screens had been placed to cover almost every inch of the echoing warehouse, and Mem had found herself more than once startled to look over her shoulder and find yet another screen, one more man pacing up and down his weary floorboards. Mr. Haddaway was always at his small apartment these days; pacing, pacing, pacing. He paced around his kitchen table, around his pot plants, he could even pace around the television had he disconnected the cord and set it in the center of the room to create a shrine. In which such a shrine would be rather pointless, you see, as the man rarely had the urge to cease his incessant pacing and bury himself in the serene, drowning denial that is midday cable television.

In Near's opinion, at any rate.

In what could have been an attempt to match the grown man's incessant pacing, Near had grown effortlessly into the habit of incessant watching. He sat on the cold concrete floor, curled up with his arms hugging his knees to his chest in a desperate attempt to make himself the size of a fly. _A fly on the wall_. Perhaps such desperate attempts would not be needed, after all. Ghostly still, with the exception of an occasional shift in weight from his toes to his heels - suspiciously like the rocking motion of a man losing his mind - Near stared blankly at the screens surrounding him, bathing him in their artificial glow, with an expression that would bring those around him to question whether or not he was truly taking anything in. He continued to rock idly, and the Chief bit on his toothpick a little harder.

"It's been days," he stated, addressing the companionable patch of air to his right.

The air, in turn, stirred his cheek a little as Detective Sherry waltzed up next to him, one hand missing and presumed dead in the folds of her pocket, the other dangling helplessly by her side. She gave him a smile he wished he had ignored, and again, bit his toothpick hard to be sure he hadn't swallowed it. Or to be sure he wouldn't return the smile. It was hard to tell with his thoughts as muddled as they were.

"Fifty-two hours and seven minutes to be exact. Please refrain from over-exaggerating, Chief," a white back told him in a tone the Chief was absolutely sure was condescending.

Sherry stepped forward, heroically rescuing the reddening Chief.

"It's just that we were under the impression there was no time we could afford to waste on this case, and, well, we've been going over and over this footage for-" she began expressively, only to be cut off mid-sentence by the same white back.

"There_ is_ no time we can afford to waste, Detective. I assure you, everything we do here is absolutely essential. However, you may be pleased to note that the next stage will be carried out shortly."

"How shortly?" Grumbled the Chief lowly.

"Shortly," he informed him in return, after a small pause.

The Chief returned to stubbing the toe of his shoes into the unrelenting concrete ground, muttering continuously as he did so.

"Well, where's Mem?" Asked Sherry, after a concerned glance at the Chief.

Near only slightly inclined his head in the general direction where Mem sat, immersed and surrounded by screens.

Sherry was only able to spy a flash of dark hair peeping through the gap of two screens, tinted with wisps of blue from the screen's glow.

"What's she doing?" Sherry asked, probably Near, as he was the only one expected to have all the answers. This was no exception.

He audibly sighed, irritated, yet his eyes never once wavering from their steady stare at the screen in front of him. "Why don't you go ask her for yourself?"

Sherry, thankfully, took the hint.

"Right," she half-chuckled, half-cowered, and waltzed away with a purposeful stride, eyes intent of the dark patch of hair visible only by a slither.

"Mem?" She asked the girl in question, "what are you doing?"

Mem started a little, not only at the sudden intrusion, but the child-like quality of the question. She was instantly reminded of small hand, small eyes, small child with a big question, tugging away at the end of her skirt. Or was it a memory? She couldn't remember. _What are you doing?_ Tentatively spoken, but with such curiosity, marked with fear and respect. Yet when had she earned such respect from these people?

"Detective Sherry?"

The woman smiled warmly, and Mem felt the unfamiliar sensation of trust fill her like a drug.

"Please dear, it's Sherry."

"Sherry, do you-" Mem paused, wondering whether if it was this wonderful sense of security that had made her suddenly feel so bold. "Do you think this is right?"

"Right?" Sherry repeated, the question mark furrowing her brow. She glanced over her shoulder as if to be sure no one was eavesdropping. The gesture didn't ease Mem's mind. As far as she was concerned, paranoia always starts with some amount of reason.

"This," Mem struggled to find the right word to fit in her puzzle, "deception. Is it right?"

"Is it the right thing to do?" Sherry asked.

"Yes. I want to know. I need to know."

Sherry's furrowed brow deepened, and Mem felt foolish for bringing up the subject. Internally, she prayed to be free from having to explain herself to the woman. How would she even begin explaining? After all, Sherry and herself weren't exactly on a buddy-basis. Perhaps it had been better to bury her suspicions down her throat to hide beneath this morning's breakfast. Nonetheless, she prayed fervently.

"What brought this on?" Sherry asked, curious.

It appeared that God was momentarily disconnected.

Mem looked away, suddenly able to sympathize with the soldier who was having second thoughts on the already bloodied battlefield. "It's just," Mem stopped abruptly, unaccustomed to this inarticulateness, feeling very much a fool with her stuttering and timidity. "It's just that this man, this man, from what I've been monitoring, stopped committing his crimes years ago. If he wants justice so much, then arrest him. Why the deception? This man has suffered enough in his life, to lose a wife and child. Why do this? Can he really be this heartless?"

'He,' they both understood, was the white boy huddled on the floor, idly tugging at the unruly locks of his hair.

Sherry sighed, and in it was patience and care and a little sadness, too. That sigh gave Mem all the comfort she would have needed. Perhaps she hadn't been the only one to feel the effects of this business.

"He can't just arrest him, Mem," she smiled half-heartedly, but whether her heart was half-full or half-empty was unknown to Mem. "Any police officer can arrest a man, put handcuffs on him and lead him behind bars. All you need to do is do well in school, graduate, get your training, pass, work your way onto the field and _bam!_ you've arrested your first criminal. Anyone could do it, Mem, and that's why he can't just arrest this man. L has to bring him down, he has to corner him, make an art of it, because he isn't just anyone."

She could feel the woman holding back; Sherry had more to say, and Mem feared she already knew what it was:

He was careless, callous. It was as simple as that. What should he care of some criminal's suffering?

Mem focused on her hands, unable to betray her disappointment in the young man to her companion. "Then his pride will be his downfall."

"Undoubtedly," Sherry nodded sullenly, and the easy confirmation of an inevitable downfall made Mem's heart sink. She couldn't stand him, but such a loss would be unthinkable for society.

"Then there's nothing I can do?" Mem asked, already sure of the answer.

"You could always bring it up with L, though I doubt the result would turn in your favor. Mem, don't let this be too much on your conscience, if you feel you need-"

"No, no," Mem shook her head quickly, suddenly not wanting this conversation anymore, not here, not now. "It's just a shame that's all. He's still a guilty man. I just need to remember that."

"Okay," Sherry shrugged, hardly looking convinced. "But if it ever-"

"Yes, I will. Don't worry" Mem smiled at the older woman.

Sherry shrugged again, though her relief was apparent. Sherry had never been one for the heart-to-heart business. Not that she didn't enjoy it - she just tended to ruin everything as soon as she opened her mouth. An awkward practice, and hardly enjoyable for herself and the other party.

"Thank you, Sherry," Mem gave her an awkward pat on the hand, and Sherry felt maybe not _everything_ was ruined.

----------x----------x----------x----------

"You know, America had originally planned to use something uncannily similar to that to distract enemy airships flying overhead, had the Cold War come to that," Mem noted dully, eyeing the specimen before her with detached distaste.

The Chief was holding up a pink sweater with some sort of loud pattern on it, using his forefingers and thumbs to reveal its grand splendor, holding it out as far away from himself as possible, as if it was infected with some exotic disease that would surely kill him grotesquely. He grunted as Sherry gave him an approving look form afar.

"You could get away with a few pink shirts you know, Chief," she informed him smartly, adopting that critical fashion eye that was so prevalent in middle-aged women. "Or even a nice striped pink tie. You didn't bring that sweater from home, did you? You sure the wife won't miss it?"

The Chief rolled his eyes effectively, in that way that only middle-aged men can. "You _know_ I haven't been married for years. We all do. Stop asking about my 'wife.' And the pink thing's for Mem," he quickly tacked on to the end after a moments thought, riding himself of any association with _the thing_, as he had so christened it in his mind.

Sherry sighed dramatically. "Well, get one already! All this moping about and complaining of how you don't get a decent meal. I'll marry you myself if you're not careful."

The Chief opened his mouth to bark out a rebuttal, then promptly closed it on a second thought. The threat was not lost on him, it seemed. He glared at his grimy boots while those surrounding him chuckled lightly.

"What else is there in the bag?" Mem asked, distracted by the other would-be-weapons of mass destruction hiding in the folds of plastic, ready to pounce.

"Shoes, pants, a wig. Some glasses, too, I think," the Chief ticked them off his fingers one by one, thankful for the distraction. "Better safe then sorry in this case. We don't want you recognized."

"I doubt there will be a chance of that with all this," she remarked, fingering the goods with a look that seemed suspiciously close to fascination. "I've never worn a wig before."

"A good sign in a woman, I think," Sherry laughed carelessly as she scooped up the mop of fake hair. "Copper? Well, I guess we wouldn't want to make it look like it was obvious you were wearing a wig. The closer to the original the better, I suppose. But my! It's short!"

"I should get these on," Mem said, glancing at an impatient-looking Near as he sat crouched on the floor, warily watching the pink sweater she had dropped as if it were about to attack at any given moment.

Perhaps it was.

"I'll be quick," she promised needlessly, heading toward the large metal door of the warehouse. There was a small outhouse located just outside of the building, crumbling under the sun, yet still private. She headed for it like a speeding bullet.

----------x----------x----------x----------

Pulling the pink sweater on was less of a hassle than expected. Imagining some form of epic battle - adorned with a range of explosions and fireworks, not to mention the last emotional haul, where she would no doubt receive various medals of bravery and honor to commemorate her startling journey of dressing – to pull the offending article of clothing on, the actual act of it seemed somewhat anti-climatic.

Disappointing, but hardly worthy of being the cause of a night without much sleep.

"You look highly uncomfortable," was the welcoming words that first rang out as she stepped back into the warehouse, a little heavier than usual, due to the new weight hanging off her back and head. The outhouse had no mirror, so she could only take their word for it.

"Utterly average," was the next.

"Like a true teenager," Sherry clapped her hands together joyfully, though she did not continue to define what a _true_ teenager was expected to look like. Images of certain teenage girls she had seen and even conversed shortly with throughout her life flashed though Mem's mind, and the effect was far from comforting.

"It will do," sighed Near, who was fiddling with the wires hidden in the back of an impressive looking robot. Toys sure had come a long way since the original wooden train set. "Matsuda, please inform Peter, the chauffeur, that we're ready. You're ready, aren't you?" He asked Mem, who was fingering the loose threads of the pink sweater.

"Yes," she lied, hearing a car engine begin to purr outside the surrounding walls. "I know what I've got to do."

Near tilted his head slightly to the side, then unexpectedly pulled out a wire from the robot savagely. The action was so fast it almost seemed inhuman.

"That's what I was afraid of," he sighed, balancing the limp wire across his fingers. "Let's go then, shall we?"

----------x----------x----------x----------

**Phew! It's been _ages_ since I last updated – so sorry!**

**A shorter chapter, more of a fill-in requirement than anything else. From the next chapter onwards things will start speeding up.**

**A/N: I'm not sure, but I've always felt Near was more inhumane that L. I guess I've been trying to show that side of him through this story. He's always been a bit creepy; just think back to the episode where he sits calmly and watches as his team die of heart attacks or commit suicide around him, as opposed to L's reaction when Watari dies. A tad chilly, I reckon'**

**Though I guess it also makes him all the more of an interesting character ;)**

**Your thoughts? **


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